


Kaffee und Kühlen

by SmallishWormMasterOfTheUniverse



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: M/M, coffee shop AU, i have finals i have so many finals, they know a lot of language bc it's a kaiju-less au and they need a nerd outlet, this got a little out of hand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 17:29:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18761080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmallishWormMasterOfTheUniverse/pseuds/SmallishWormMasterOfTheUniverse
Summary: “You speak German,” the man says slowly.“[I sure do!]” says Newt.Sometimes if you talk shit about your barista in a language you think they can't understand, they'll end up with a massive crush on you.





	Kaffee und Kühlen

**Author's Note:**

> Because I don't actually know German and I don't want to use crappy google translate German (except for the title) I'm doing this comic-book style. Every quote with [brackets] around the words is German. There's a couple other languages at the end but you'll know em when you see em.
> 
> Wow this is the only coffeeshop au I've written that doesn't involve organ harvesting.

Newt gets a lot of customers who refuse to put down their  _ very important  _ phones when they’re ordering, but this one has managed to piss him off in particular. For one, he’s got a  _ list  _ of orders about half a mile long, which he hasn’t even  _ started  _ reading yet, and for two, he is possibly the most attractive guy Newt has ever seen, and Newt absolutely can’t get a word in edgewise to even  _ suggest  _ asking for his number. And Newt can be  _ very  _ suggestive. 

He can also speak German, something he apparently has in common with Chatty Kathy over here. “[Yes, yes,]” the man says into the phone in a voice of carefully maintained calm, vowels clipped, “[I’m almost done, I’ll be back in time for the meeting.]” Work problems, it would seem. Newt’s about to flash him a sympathetic smile — he  _ hates  _ his fuckin’ job sometimes, he knows how it is — but then the guy continues. “[I’m sorry about this. The barista here is a bit slow.]”

Oh,  _ is  _ he? Newt takes a minute to glare conspicuously at the man before realizing that he’s technically right — he still hasn’t finish processing the last customer’s transaction. So sue him, he gets distracted; you’d think Starbucks wouldn’t allow enough downtime for that, but so it goes. He punches it in and beckons the man forward, still keeping his ears open. 

“One black coffee,” the man says in English, (and in an English accent too, god help Newt) looking at the list rather than Newt. “Oh no, make that two, and the second one should be decaf —” Newt hears a barking sound from the other end of the phone, and the man, who is infuriatingly  _ even more  _ handsome up close, switches back to German. “[I’m sorry, I know, it must be his first day —]”

Oh, hell no, Newt thinks, it is most certainly  _ not  _ his first day. Newt was born and raised in the coffee trenches, man. He’s lost friends here, comrades, cradled their dying bodies as they bled out on the tile floors while all around them bags of grounds exploded like rockets — 

The man coughs. Yeah, Newt definitely forgot to take his Vyvanse this morning. Still, he can’t help but want to fuck with the guy. “[Anything else?]” he asks in German.

“[Yes,]” says the man, also in German. “[Two more coffees with cream and sugar, also decaf, and four iced coffees, and — wait.]” He stares at his list as though he’s seeing it for the first time, then stares up at Newt the exact same way. “Wait,” he repeats in English.

“[Is there a problem?]” Newt asks, a wide, smug smile winding its way across his face. The line of people behind the man is getting kind of twitchy, but they’ll just have to hang on. Newt wants to  _ savor  _ this. “[Would you like to see a menu?]” he asks innocently.

“You speak German,” the man says slowly, in English. A terrific blush is creeping up his cheeks. It’s  _ adorable. _

“[I sure do!]” says Newt. “[Anything else for the meeting? I’ll try to be quick.]”

“[Oh! I, uh, yes, just one of those — ]” he switches back to English “— a frappuccino, strawberry flavored, that’s the last.” He crumples up the list and stuffs it into his pocket. “I would like to say, I am so sorry—”

Newt waves him off with an “It’s all good, dude,” because the man seems genuinely upset, and what’s the fun in that? He takes the man’s card and scans it, and the man snatches it back while muttering something in a stuttering combination of English and German about Newt accepting his apology, and before Newt can say something smooth like he’d rather accept his  _ number,  _ the man is stuffing a large wad of crumpled bills into the tip jar and speeding off, hissing frantically into his phone. Newt didn’t even get his name for the order. He shrugs and writes ‘German’ on the receipt. It’s close enough.

 

… 

 

Even a month after his ill-fated visit, Newt’s still hoping to see the German man again. Unfortunately, however, since he’s just another cog in the capitalist coffee machine, he ends up getting transferred to the short-staffed Starbucks a couple blocks away. (He also, very casually, mentions his opinions on this move to his supervisor and narrowly avoids getting fired.) He spends one very pathetic lunch break in the  _ old  _ Starbucks, his ex-coworkers mocking him relentlessly, before he finally gives up. He barely saw the guy for two minutes, anway; he’s  _ really  _ gotta get over this.

But then, on one fateful but otherwise typically shitty Monday afternoon, Newt glances up from the register and sees his long-lost German dreamboat waiting at the front of the line. He’s on his phone again — texting, by the movements of his long, delicate fingers — but he seems much more relaxed than last time, at least until Newt shuts the cash register with a clank and greets him with an  _ extremely  _ cheery “[What can I get for you?]”

The man  _ whips  _ his head up so fast his glasses bounce on the end of his nose, which is both hilarious and adorable, Newt thinks, and then gapes openly at Newt as if he’s some kind of alien from another dimension. He even darts his eyes around the Starbucks like he’s making sure he hasn’t wandered into the wrong one. Finally, he shuts his mouth and says, very primly, “[Your accent is terrible.]”

“[Excuse me?]” says Newt, because he’s pretty sure he had the upper hand here. “[What do you mean, my accent is terrible?]”

“[I just mean that you sound very...American.]” The man slides a credit card across the counter. “[I’d like a large strawberry frappuccino, please.]”

“[It’s called a  _ venti,]”  _ Newt says, very pointedly not taking the credit card. “[And I was  _ born  _ in Germany, you, uh, you  _ limey.]” _

The other man huffs in a breath and is about to respond when the long-suffering woman behind him taps him on the shoulder. “Hey, can you two finish it up?” she asks. “I need to —”

“I am  _ having a conversation,” _ the man says indignantly. 

“AND I’M TAKING MY LUNCH BREAK!” Newt interrupts. “C’mon,” he says to the German-British dude, “your  _ venti  _ is on me.” He hesitates, grabs the nearest sugary-looking thing he can find, and then vaults over the counter, making a mental note to print out a couple copies of his resume. The man follows him to a table tucked away in a corner, muttering under his breath.

“[So,]” says Newt, spreading his bounty — someone else’s order of scones — across the sticky tabletop, “[accents, huh?]” He’s not sure why he’s still speaking in German — he is a little rusty, to be honest, and the dude was right about his accent — other than it feels strangely intimate. Like they’re having their own little private conversation that no one else can understand, unless of course  _ another  _ German-speaker shows up and then they’ll probably have to let  _ them  _ in and there’s only two scones so maybe Newt can say that he paid for the scones except he’s not sure if he’d be able to convince the hypothetical German-speaker that his name is Jessica and — 

“[Do you do this often?]” the man asks.

Newt blinks. “[Do what?]”

The man thinks for a minute, then makes a vague gesture in Newt’s direction, taking in his tattoos, his rumpled shirt, the chewed-up tie that he’s technically not allowed to wear because it gets caught in the machines. “[Just — everything, I suppose,]” he finally says.

“[Uh,]” says Newt, “[yeah. I’m kind of a human disaster.]”

The man gives a small laugh, more of a breath than anything. “[I think we both are, today.]”

_ “[Just  _ today?]” Newt asks, smirking. He picks up one of the scones and smushes it onto his ear and then, as an afterthought, attempts to smooth back his hair a little. “[Yes, it’s me,]” he says into the scone, grinding his teeth in exaggerated frustration. “[I’m at the  _ shitty  _ Starbucks with the  _ ugly  _ barista —]”

“[I never said you were ugly!]” the man protests, although he’s smiling.

“[Well, you could’ve,]” says Newt, now picking scone crumbs out of his hair. “[In Mandarin or something.]”

The man shakes his head. “[I don’t speak Mandarin, unfortunately.]”

“[Just German and English?]”

“[Well, not  _ just  _ those.]” The man lowers his eyes slightly, like he’s trying to be modest, and then honest to god starts  _ counting on his fucking fingers.  _ “[Hm. Japanese, Spanish, Italian — ]”

“[Ooh!]” Newt interrupts. “[Say something in Italian.]”

The man shrugs. “Voglio scoparti.”

“[And what does that mean?]”

“[It means nice to meet you,]” says the man. He reaches a hand across the table, and Newt takes it. It’s warm. “[My name is Hermann. Hermann Gottlieb.]”

“[Newton Geiszler,]” Newt says, grinning. “[Call me Newt, though. And I should probably tell you that I speak Italian, too.]”

The man — Hermann — yanks his hand back like Newt’s just burst into flames.  _ “[Oh, for — ]” _

Newt laughs. “[You really didn’t learn the first time?]”

“[I suppose not,]” Hermann sighs. “[Well — since we both have our cards on the table, would you like to get dinner?]”

Newt’s heart skips several beats, but he still has to say, suspiciously “[What cards have I put on the table?]”

Hermann stares at him. “[You drew little — hearts on my receipt. For all the coffees.]”

Huh. Newt guesses he did. “[And you still tried to switch Starbucks’, huh?]”

“[Well, I — ]” stammers Hermann. “[At the time I wasn’t sure — ]”

“[Aw, I’m just messing with you,]” says Newt. “[Come on, I get kickbacks from the pizza place across the street.]”

As Newt leaves the Starbucks with Hermann — not quite arm and arm, but very close, his hand occasionally brushing the head of Hermann’s cane — he can’t help but think that he’ll miss this job, as shitty as it is. Because he is definitely, definitely fired.

“Worth it,” he mutters in Klingon.

“Yes,” says Hermann. “I agree.”


End file.
